


your hand in mine

by DevilishKurumi



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blindness, M/M, this is my otp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 20:31:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilishKurumi/pseuds/DevilishKurumi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s nothing that you can do in this, except try and believe it when Dave says, “Relax.  I got you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	your hand in mine

**Author's Note:**

> so i totally have no idea how to write blindness. also i was originally just going to write fluffy face-touching but then this happened. so uh, artsy porn of dave/sollux getting it on while sollux is blind.
> 
> here, have some [background music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JzIK5FaC38w).

            There's nothing that you can do in this, except try and believe it when Dave says, "Relax.  I got you."  You're in the dark - or, not the dark, but this blackened blur of colors that you can only really see because your thinkpan is telling you that they must be there.  You don't know if this is what it's like for Terezi, but you don't really care enough to ask.  It's all fleeting, anyway, and you have no sense of distance or time or actual, physical locations for things, so it's pretty much fucking useless.  So useless that you have to rely on Dave.

            You don't know what he looks like, even, not exactly, because you kind of tabbed around briefly in all the humans' timelines, but you never made a point to think about them.  White hair, white skin, or at least very pale compared to anything you'd ever seen before, big sunglasses and a slouch.  That's Dave Strider as you remember from your glance.  You try to draw up the image, to put it in the place where you think he is, leaning over you as you lie back on whatever counts as a human bed - or a couch?  You aren't sure - but it's hard because he's got a stronger impression in your head through his voice.  Twangy, low, raspy and soft, perpetually with something almost stuck in his throat, more sincere than he thinks he sounds.  And anxious - _really_ anxious, hidden under some lazy drawl that you know is for show.

            "Jesus, Captor," he's saying, low in your ear, "Lemme know when you wanna turn off your thought process for five fucking minutes, bro."

            "Shut up," you hiss, and jerk in surprise as his hand rests on your bare chest, five points of warmth against your cool skin.  His skin is soft, except where there are calluses on his palm.  There's a joke there that you could probably made, but you're not really in the mood to joke.  This is kind of terrifying, and Dave's nerves are just making yours worse.  You can't _see him_.  You don't even know exactly where you are, because when he'd taken your hand it'd completely surprised you.  You hadn't even known it was him until he'd spoken up.

            You swallow thickly as he kisses your cheek, turning your head towards him and overshooting so that when you try to kiss him properly, you get mostly the corner of his lip and a little of his jawline.  He chuckles and corrects for you, more warm skin - chapped, really chapped, like he hasn't had water in days, though you know it's probably just your nerves hyperfocusing on the little things.  They're probably fine.  They _are_ fine, actually, and he kisses you silly.  He licks your lips and then pulls away when you move to return the favor.  This is the fucking worst.

            Your stomach sinks and you hiss, "I swear to god, Strider, if you're fucking with me or something-"

            "The fuck would I do that for?" he asks, sounding honestly a little offended, "You're blind, dude.  Fucking with you would be too easy.  'S why I don't mess with Terezi."

            "And because she'd drub you something fierce if you even tried," you add, helpfully.

            "Mmhm."  He sounds so fucking uninterested all of a sudden, and you feel that warmth of his body fall away as he leans back, or to the side, not that it matters.  You realize you're fucking this up, you're really fucking up, good fucking god, Captor, _weren't you over this shit_?

            His lips brush against your throat and you gasp, arching your back and twisting your head away, hand groping blindly until you find one of his arms and grab hold.  You think it's his arm.  There's his wrist, yeah, and he twists his hand until he's holding yours, lacing fingers and ignoring your clawtips as they dig briefly into skin.  He sucks on your Adam's apple and you groan, getting fever-driven imaginings of gray-white skin, blonde-white hair, glasses like yours but tinted dark instead of dualtone.  It's impossible to miss the smile of his mouth as he presses it against your neck.

            His hand is still on your chest, but now it's moving, following the dip down the center of your chest, fingers feather-light, and when you suck in a breath he runs his hands briefly along the spot where your stomach sinks lower than your ribs.  His mouth goes lower, following his fingers, which have left hot little red marks in your mind.  His knee bumps against your thigh.  You can't tell if he's leaning over you or next to you.

            "I'm sorry," you say, spitting it out.

            "What for?"  There's a heaviness where his mouth had been, rounded and not as broad as his palm.  His chin.

            "I can't fucking see," you say, even as you wonder why the fuck you think you need to apologize for that.

            "Who cares," he replies, flippantly.  "Here."  The hand interlocked with yours disentangles itself, and then grips your wrist, pulling your arm until your hand is pressed into that soft, blond-white memory of hair.  "So long as you don't go poking me in the fucking eye, we're all good."

            He's not wearing his sunglasses, you realize, and that's kind of fucking hilarious, because you never got to see his eyes and you don't think anyone else has, either.  Except maybe Lalonde, but fucking who _cares_.  You thread your fingers through his hair, feeling the top of his ear under your thumb, and he kisses your chest again.  His head moves and you feel his tongue run across the space between your ribs and your stomach, and your hand moves to his shoulder, your arm stretching to reach his shoulderblade, and then you slowly edge yourself up on your other elbow to give yourself the range to feel out the bumps of his spine.  He bends under your hand and kisses the dip of your stomach.  You feel his hand against the waistband of your boxers, sit up further, and count the bumps along his back down to where you feel the elastic of his own underwear.

            "We good?" he asks.

            "Yeah," you say, and you don't trust how your voice wavers to try saying anything else.

            The cushioning below you shifts and your hand falls away from his back as he rolls out of reach, a heavy weight settling on your thighs, him straddling you.  His hands come out of nowhere, pulling at your shoulders, wrapping around them and pulling you up, and when he kisses you you're almost ready for it.  He licks your lips, presses his tongue against them until you open your mouth, and if you thought his skin was warm it's _nothing_ compared to his mouth, hot and wet and emphasized by the rushes of air coming from his nose.  He inhales sharply and you taste metal, just a little.  He's scratched his tongue against your fang, your fucked up teeth still getting in the way even now.

            He doesn't back off, though; he just whines in the back of his throat and forces your tongue against his, letting you map out the bluntness of his teeth, imagining how weird they must look as you do.  His hand slips from your shoulder, down your side, making you jerk away as he tickles you.  He applies more pressure and it's not unbearable now, until he feels along your side and against your stomach, then lower, pressing against your arousal with feather-light fingers.  It's like he's the blind one, for a minute, gathering information through touch alone.  You reach out a hand, touch the sheets, then drag across until you find his knee.  He exhales through his nose and you trace the skin, little hairs sticking up as you move your fingers up his thigh, to his hip.  It's weird, how much hair he has.  You try to imagine what he looks like without all of that getting in the way, though.  Lots of white blurs on top of red.  Ovals and triangles.  No symmetrical edges.

            You rock up against his hand and he obliges, pressing his palm against the cotton-clad base of your arousal, sliding up, then down, slowly, still mapping.  You map out his hip, then his stomach - he twitches away, just as ticklish as you - the strange little indent that you don't have, up his chest to the strange bumps he has there.  One on the left, one on the right.  He doesn't have a concave space between his stomach and ribcage.

            He pulls his mouth away abruptly, panting heavy as you roll your fingers along the hardened bits of flesh.  His forehead is sweaty when he presses it against the bend of your neck.

            You have less trouble finding his side with your other hand, able to judge the space he takes up pretty well, and then you slide both hands behind his back, nudging him up a little higher on your thighs.  He takes the silent instruction well, bed shifting below, and then you feel his hand slip in through the slit of your boxers and exhale, more heavily than you expected you would.

            He murmurs into your shoulder and you can feel sweat beading on your own forehead.  He pulls you out of your boxers and his head shifts; you feel his forehead slide away and his hairline take its place, and he makes this quiet noise and says, "Yeah," in this guttural way that goes right through you, into your bloodpusher, through your veins like the heavy thumping of electronic music.

            His hand moves away from you after a few short strokes and you don't feel it anywhere else.  You have no idea what he's doing and that kind of terrifies you, but in a good way.  Not like before, where you thought maybe he'd mess with you.

            There's a rustle of fabric.  Then, you feel his arm bend and his hand grab yours, pulling it back between you both.  He guides your touch - briefly against those bumps on his chest, which makes him whine a little, then up to his mouth.  You want to ask what the fuck he thinks he's doing, this being completely unhelpful, but he wouldn't be able to respond anyway, taking two of your fingers into his mouth and sucking on them.

            They're more sensitive than you thought, and his tongue laves against the hardened pads of your fingertips until you're panting, kneading his back with everything but the claws of your free hand.  There's a soft pop as he pulls your fingers out of his mouth, and he says, "Hope you're imagining the best porn star expressions here, Captor.  I'm giving this my fucking all."

            You hadn't been, but as he repeats himself on the other two fingers, holding your thumb pinned to the side of your hand with both of his own, you can't stop.  You go ahead and try to imagine him with grayer-white skin than before, and he keeps his mouth open a little.  He's probably looking at you.

            "What color are your eyes," you hear yourself ask, down some long tunnel.

            He slips your fingers out of his mouth.  "Red," he says, without hesitation.  He licks your knuckles and you groan.

            He finishes practically worshipping your hand by licking a long, wet stripe up your palm.  Then, his hand draws yours away from his face, down his chest, down to the stretchy cotton of his underwear.  He's already pulled himself out, and he takes care when he wraps your still-wet hand around him, exhaling through his nose.  You stare probably right at him, you don't know.  He puts his forehead back against your shoulder, guides you a little bit as you feel him out, stroking him slowly, and then he returns his hand where you most want it, matching your pace completely.

            Every time you pick up speed, he moves along with you as if he can tell what you're going to do before you do it.  His head shifts every time he breathes, and sometimes you feel his body brush against one of your knuckles as you pump your hand.  He strokes firmly, squeezes a little, and you tighten your grip until he moans an affirmative word that you don't really hear.  He rocks against you, little hairs dragging against your smooth skin, and you nose your way along the side of his face until you find his neck, then his shoulder.  You try to be careful as you bite and suck, and from the way he gasps and jerks underneath you, you're doing okay.  You don't know if you're leaving a mark.

            You hope you are.

            He takes in a choking breath, using it to say, " _Shit_ , Sollux," and then you have to keep up with him as he jerks his hand quicker, tighter, pumping your arousal and making these low, twangy noises that are all Strider.  You're pretty sure you're going to get hard just trying to focus on him from now on, because all you can imagine up are things based off of his voice.  The pressure at the base of your spine - lower than that - builds, and you can't stop yourself from moaning, long and loud and unabashed, even if maybe you're in a space where anyone could hear  you, and he kisses your shoulder and encourages you with little _yes_ es and _please_ s and _god, god, god_ -

            Your back bows and you want to tell him to slow down, because you're so close and if he's not careful - but he's already choking down his praises, and you feel him under your hand, like a coil going taught in a machine before springing back into place, hot semi-liquid against the back of your hand and a little on your thigh.  You keep going until he puts out a hand to stop you, then fall backwards against the mattress and grab at the pillow just beyond your head and sob.  It's fucking _terrible_ , it's horrifying, you can't see anything and all you have is the sensation of his hand against you, pumping, and his voice from above saying, "Good, c'mon, you look so fucking hot, c'mon."

            You feel white-hot and oversensitive and you come, gasping, and he helps you all the way through it until you can hardly breathe.  You can feel the fucking thread-count in the sheets below you and the sweat all across your forehead and shoulders, down your back, semi-liquid against your stomach and all through that, Dave Strider, lording over you with a grin in his voice as he says, "Goddamn, Captor."

            Your hand meets his shoulder in a light slap, and then you adjust your aim and get his cheek like you meant to.  He chuckles and slides off of you, and you're completely alone in this room you don't know, dark with no colored blurs.  He comes back after a minute and wipes you off with a towel.  You turn your head towards the location you think he's at, and imagine white hair and white skin and _please_ s all over the fucking place.

            "Jesus Christ," he says, sounding awed and a little concerned, "Please don't fucking tell me you've got enough in you for another round already."

            You hold out a hand, clutching at the air a few times until he gets the hint and grabs it with his own.  Then, you pull him until he climbs onto the bed with you, lying on top of you for a second too long before sliding into the spot next to you, all warm and sweaty.  You nudge him with your hip until he puts his arm around you.  The other finds one of your horns, and while they're not sensitive normally, you can feel the touch more acutely than you'd ever thought possible.

            "Didn't matter," he says after a long time.  You try to drag yourself up from the weird half-sleep you almost fell into, murmuring curiously.  "That you're blind, or whatever else.  So never apologize for that shit, okay?"

            "Yeah," you say.  "Okay."

            "An hour for a power nap, then we're going to work on getting you a better mental image of me," he continues, that twang in his voice more drawn out with exhaustion, accompanied by a crazy amount of smugness that makes you exhale in mock exasperation.  "I figure a full body mapping session is in order, here."

            "I guess I'm okay with that," you say, and he laughs, petting your hair and massaging the base of your horns until you finally let yourself close your eyes and abandon all those white-gray-red colored blurs for the regular darkness of sleep.


End file.
